It Is Not a Word Spoken
by CrazyAce'n'PokerFace
Summary: "*…I don't understand. You can't possibly be suggesting you were seriously trying to sext me.* She stares at his words and exhales slowly before typing, *And if I was…?*" É/E Modern AU. The long-awaited sexting fic. Very NSFW. Dedicated to the wonderful samthenardier as a birthday gift. Title taken from the lovely poem "It Is Not a Word" by Sara Teasdale.


**Author Note: Welcome to_ It Is Not a Word Spoken_, written for samthenardier on tumblr. É/E Modern AU. The long-awaited sexting fic. _Very_ NSFW.**** Happy birthday, darling! (I am so glad you are legal now, so I don't feel guilty dedicating to you some of the filthiest smut I've ever written). :D**

**Credit to Sara Teasdale's poem, "It Is Not a Word" for the title. :)**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**...**

**...**

**It Is Not a Word Spoken**

**…**

**...**

* * *

She wakes up with the mother of all hangovers.

"Jesus Christ," she moans. "What did I _do_ last night?"

She doesn't expect anyone to answer and nearly has a heart-attack when a familiar giggle reaches her ears.

"Holy crap! Jesus Christ! You can't just walk in here like this, Cosette!" she yells, lurching upright and clutching the covers to her chest, squinting in the dim light of the room. "You're like a ghost, I swear to God. You need to warn people!"

Her best friend seems to materialize from thin air and hands her her glasses and a mug of steaming hot coffee. "It's not my fault you're blind as a bat without your glasses and half-deaf when you're hung-over, Éponine," Cosette says chidingly.

Éponine glares blearily at her. "Whatever." She tries taking a sip of the coffee, then winces when a sudden pain shoots through her. "Ow, ow, jeez, ow, I am _never_ going drinking again. What the hell did I _do_ to myself?"

"I think you drank two beers, had half of Marius's martini, and then downed at least six vodka shots. I lost count after that," Cosette says.

"God, that's a lot of alcohol." Éponine flops back onto the bed and presses the heels of hands into her eyes. "I don't remember anything after beating Courfeyrac and Joly at pool. Did anything important happen after that?"

"I don't think so," Cosette says. "Oh, but I think you may have stolen Marius's phone. It went missing after you danced with him, and you do like to mess with people when you're…well, when you're—"

"—drunker than Captain Jack Sparrow on rum island? Yeah, sorry about that, you can look through my bag." She gestures blindly at the floor.

"Thanks, Éponine."

She hears rustling sounds and quiet, soothing humming, and burrows deeper into the sheets, trying to ease her aching head.

"Hey, Cosette? Can you hand me my phone?" she asks.

"Why?" her roommate asks suspiciously. (She won't be her roommate for long, however, as the twenty-four-year old was due to marry Marius and move out in eight months' time. That was what the party last night had been for, to celebrate their recent engagement.)

"Because I want to see if I drunk-dialed anyone. Damage control, you know?"

Cosette sighs heavily. "You better not have called my dad and claimed I was kidnapped again. That wasn't funny. You're remarkably good at sounding sober and typing legibly when you're drunk, but you use it for the most nefarious reasons."

"Nefarious? What are we, twelve?"

"You're the one prank-calling people," Cosette retorts.

"_Maybe_ prank-calling people, and come on, if your dad hasn't shown up with a shotgun, I must not have done anything too bad," Éponine argues.

"You're right, I guess," Cosette says. "Oh, here's Marius's phone! And—since when do you have two phones?"

"Oh. That. My dad's trying to buy my affections again," Éponine says. "Stupid of him, but I figured I'd just sell it on e-Bay."

Cosette gives a sympathetic murmur. "Okay. That sounds like a plan." She pets Éponine's hair softly. "I love you, darling. Come and get some food when you're ready, alright? I made you breakfast burritos."

Cosette leaves both phones on the bedside table and exits the room, and Éponine drags the covers over her head and goes back to sleep.

Two hours later, she re-enters the world of the living, checks both her phone and the bribery-phone, and nearly chokes on her own laughter when she reads the messages on the latter.

What the hell did she _do_ last night?

* * *

"What the hell did you do last night?" Joly yells. "I have half a dozen messages from a strange number telling me all the different diseases I could have based off my rash! Who have you been talking to, Marius?"

"It's not a rash, it's a mosquito bite," Bossuet says.

"Shut up, Bossuet!" Joly says, genuinely angry for once. He bites down on his knuckles anxiously. "What if they're right?"

"They're not right. You said they also ended it with all the reasons you probably don't have a disease," Combeferre says in a placating tone. He looks at Marius. "Clearly somebody stole your phone and prank-called everyone on your contacts list, Marius."

"Using their own number so we can't trace them and sue them!" Joly says.

"Joly, please calm down. We promise you're fine," Enjolras says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It doesn't matter anyway, since you found your phone again, right, Marius?"

Marius nods sheepishly. "Sorry, guys. Cosette, uh…managed to find it abandoned in the ladies' restroom?"

"So the culprit is a woman," Joly says.

Enjolras gives him an exasperated glance before turning back to Marius. "Please don't misplace your phone in the future so something like this doesn't happen again."

Bahorel laughs. "I don't mind—all I got were 'That's what she said' jokes. They were good, too."

"I got instructions on how to make flower crowns with poison ivy," Jehan says.

"I received dating profiles of single or divorced Polish women over the age of forty," Feiully shares.

"I got unusual good luck charms I can make using household items," Bossuet says.

"I got cat memes," Courfeyrac says.

"Pictures of moths for me," Combeferre admits.

"She sent me a list of names that I would be if I were a drink," Grantaire says with a smirk. "I quite liked 'Banging a Granite Dickhead on a Beach with No Towel'."

They all laugh at that, even Joly—well, everyone except for Enjolras, who frowns instead.

"What did _you_ get?" Grantaire asks, raising a questioning brow.

"An argument," Enjolras says slowly, "on why Napoleon was a more successful leader than Robespierre."

His friends look at him in confused silence.

"Man, Enjolras, I think this proves you literally have no sense of humor," Courfeyrac says.

Enjolras just rolls his eyes. "Forget it. Can we just get back to the point of this meeting again?" he says, leading the conversation back to more relevant topics.

Still, throughout the meeting, he's distinctly aware of the weight of his phone in his pocket, where caustic and clever messages from an unknown woman linger on the screen much the same way her words linger in his memory.

He'll delete them, he thinks decisively. Just after one last message…

* * *

Her phone beeps in her bag later that day, and Éponine frowns.

When she checks her screen, nothing's on it, and she shrugs it off—but then she hears another beep, and with an awful feeling of dread, she knows she checked the wrong screen, and she knows who sent her the message.

*I still disagree with you* the first message from Enjolras reads, and she rolls her eyes. How predictable. Honestly, she's still not sure how an attempt to teasingly sext him (and _what the hell were you thinking, drunk self?_ is her main thought on the matter) turned into a seventeen-message long debate on French history, but she's pretty sure most of the blame can be laid squarely at his door. The man was hot as a revved and ready engine, but also as oblivious as a doorpost.

The second message, however, has her staring at her phone in surprise.

It reads:

*But you make interesting and thoughtful points. Thank you for your frank discussion, though if you would please never text Joly again, that would be greatly appreciated.*

Well, well, well. She grins at her phone. Enjolras, the marble man, praising her? That was new. They'd known each other for nearly five years now, meeting sometime in her freshman year of college when Cosette and Marius started dating, but they never did get along, their interactions limited to heated shouting matches where he was dismissive of her opinions and she was derisive of his ideals, or the rare exchange of curt nods of barely polite acknowledgement. To say that they disliked each other was an understatement; to say that they hated each other was an exaggeration. No, their non-relationship could best be described as a mutually antagonistic but mostly indifferent acquaintanceship.

*No problem* she texts back. *Joly's safe from me. And you made a few good points yourself, pretty boy. It was nice talking with you.*

She puts the phone back in her bag, expecting that to be it, this strange little aberration from their usual pattern over and done with.

* * *

It isn't.

He texts her back a few days later asking for her opinion on a subject, and it devolves into another long, thought-provoking debate—and again, she thinks that _this_ time is it, the last conversation, the discussion over and done with.

But a few days after that, she finds herself stumped on the next part of a paper she's writing, and decides that he owes her and texts him, determined to bounce ideas off his brilliant if frustrating brain. He helps her get her thoughts in order, she writes the paper, and she shoves the phone back into her bag, reminding herself that it was time to sell it on e-Bay.

Except she never quite manages to do so, since he keeps on texting her (and, well, to be honest, she keeps on texting him, too, but she's 87% sure that he's the one who initiated more than half of their encounters. Or maybe 86%. At_ least _85%, though, which is still a pretty damn high number).

Soon enough, the intellectual debates start becoming interspersed with more…personal details.

She asks him whether she should get Mexican or Chinese take-out, and they spend twenty minutes talking about the merits of home-cooked meals vs. fast food. They agree on the health benefits of the former, but surprisingly enough, she's the one who eats it more often—Cosette likes cooking a lot, after all. She sometimes likes fast food's greasy taste, however, while he scoffs and makes an argument for its convenience, and she teases him on how he's becoming a corporate sell-out. He huffily denies it, then sheepishly admits a fondness for Starbuck's vanilla bean frappes (she sends him laughing emoticons in response to that, and he doesn't text her back for two days).

He asks her what her favorite book is, and they spend hours sharing childhood favorites, swapping recommendations, arguing over characters, tropes, favorite archetypes. He likes Orwell and autobiographies & historical non-fiction; she likes Pratchett and sci-fi & fantasy; they've both sold their souls to J. K. Rowling, though, so it's all good.

(*You'd be in Gryffindor for sure.*

*I suppose that makes us enemies, since I'm rather certain you're in Slytherin.*)

She learns his favorite painter is Dalí; she tells him hers is O'Keefe. He learns her favorite color is dark green; she sends him an irreverent emoticon when he asks if she want to know his (*It's red. I know that already, stupid. :P*). She learns his favorite time of day is two a.m., when it seems the world's asleep; hers is sunset, always sunset. He learns she's never been to the ocean; she learns he's a little afraid of heights.

(*I have nightmares of falling and falling and falling.*

*Yeah?*

*…it's stupid, I know.*

*No, it's not. Tell you what, next time that happens, try and give yourself wings. Or better yet, pretend I'll come and catch you.*

*Please, you'd drop me on purpose and laugh while you did so.*

*Okay, yeah, but I'd catch you first.*)

They talk and they text and they fight and they argue and they joke and they laugh. They know each other as well as they know themselves, and three months after that first drunken conversation, Éponine comes to realize that he's the first person she texts in the morning and the last person she talks to at night. And even though he's never asked for her name, he still knows who she is, all the broken, battered bits, all the glorious, shining parts, everything and anything she is.

The funny thing is, what scares her most about this is how very _not_ scared she is to realize he's managed to get closer to her than anyone else ever gotten.

She's not afraid of how he can hurt her. She knows he wouldn't do that, never seriously, and rarely on purpose, and he'd always be sorry afterward.

She trusts him.

And _that's_ what terrifies her more than she can say.

* * *

The day after she comes to this realization is the day that everything changes.

She's sitting in bed, trying to decide how to tell him that she's moving to Guam and the cell phone bill will be too high to keep doing this, so this is goodbye, when he completely derails her train of thought with one message.

*So why did you want to find me anyway?* he texts her.

She tilts her head, staring quizzically at her phone. *Huh?* she texts back.

*The night you started texting me. You wanted to find me?*

*Uhhh, no. What gave you that idea? O.o*

*Don't be silly. You asked me what I was wearing. Why else would you need to know that for, unless you wanted to find me in the crowd?*

Éponine has to bite down on her lip to keep from bursting out laughing. Eventually, she manages to text him back, fingers shaking from barely suppressed giggles. *I was trying to sext you.*

His reply to this is the fastest yet.

*WHAT*

*WHY WOULD YOU*

*NO*

She's grinning as she types in her reply. *Oh, come on, pretty boy, what else was it for? Finding you in the crowd? REALLY? With that shock of hair? I didn't need to know your clothes for that.*

*BUT WHY WOULD YOU EVEN—THAT IS A HORRIBLE PRANK TO PLAY ON SOMEONE.*

*Who said it was a prank?*

She hits send before she can really think about it, and feels like throwing the phone out the window the second she does so—they're close, yeah, friends even, but there's no way he would ever—

Her phone beeps in her hand, and she's almost too nervous to look at the message.

*…I don't understand. You can't possibly be suggesting you were seriously trying to sext me.*

She exhales slowly before typing, *And if I was…?*

She doesn't get anything back for the longest time, so she decides to fuck it and just go for it. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? And besides, there's always Guam to fall back on.

(And part of her is thinking, calculating—sex is safe ground, familiar territory, nothing more than lust and gratification—she can handle that, easy as breathing, no problem.

She thinks so, anyway. It's just Enjolras, right?)

*What are you wearing?* she texts him.

She waits for his answer.

* * *

He stares at his screen in disbelief, half of him certain that it's a joke, the other half—well, the other half is hoping rather desperately that it's not, and he wonders when it is, exactly, that this girl got close enough to break through his defenses and make him feel this crazy.

(There's only one other person who's done this before, and by the time he realized _why_ Éponine Thénardier got under his skin, he'd blown any chances he had with her.)

He thinks about lying and telling her that he's not interested, that he thinks this is highly inappropriate—and then he wonders when the hell he became a coward, and decides to just fuck it.

*A shirt and sweatpants.* He types.

He hits send and starts panicking, nearly having a heart attack when his phone beeps in his hand. He's almost afraid to look, but—

*Seriously? That's it?*

He frowns. *What else were you expecting?*

*You've never done this before have you?*

*Well, no, but it's fairly straight-forward, isn't it?*

*Apparently not, since the first time we tried this we ended up talking about long-dead Frenchmen, and just now you sent me the most un-arousing sext in history. You suck at this.*

He glares at his phone, affronted, and starts typing a reply when she sends him another message.

*Look, the point is to try and turn me on. Get me to imagine exactly what you look like, exactly what you're doing to yourself, what I'm doing to you. Give me details. See, I could say I'm wearing underwear and a nightshirt, and that would be completely true, but are you turned on?*

*Not really, no.*

*But I say I'm wearing a see-through tank top and black lace panties that are starting to get soaking wet because I'm thinking about you, and…?*

Holy shit. Enjolras stress blankly at his phone for several seconds, reasonably certain she's completely short-circuited his brain.

*Hey? You there? Look, we don't have to do this.*

*Are you really wet?* is his answer.

*…yes.* is her reply, coming a minute or so later.

*Oh.* is all he can think to type.

Somewhere out there is a girl who's sitting on her bed, thinking about him and getting herself off, or just about to start, anyway, and she's—he's—they're—

He takes a breath and closes his eyes, which turns out to be a bad idea, because suddenly he's picturing her, black panties and transparent tank top, the cloth so thin he can see the hard peaks of her nipples clearly outlined against it, her long, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders as she types her reply…and her face is Éponine's.

He opens his eyes abruptly and tries to banish the thought, but he's already half-hard in his sweatpants, aroused beyond belief, and the phone beeps in his hand.

*It's your turn now. Start with the color.*

*Black t-shirt, gray sweatpants, blue underwear.*

*Dark blue?*

*Yes.*

*Are they boxers or briefs?*

*Boxers.*

*Hmmm. Now we're getting somewhere. Okay, so now we tell each other what we're doing, or what we want to do.*

That was easy enough. *I want to take off your clothes and kiss you everywhere.*

Her reply comes less quickly than normal. *Usually people go a little slower and focus on themselves more, but that works.* And then, *Everywhere?*

*Everywhere.*

*jfc*

Something about the way she says that has him thinking…*Are you touching yourself?*

*Wow, you really learn fast.*

*Are you touching yourself?* he repeats, swallowing heavily.

*I've been touching myself since you mentioned you were wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants.*

He simultaneously grins a little and shifts, all the way hard now just from her admission alone. *I thought that wasn't arousing.*

*It wouldn't be normally, but I know what you look like, and God, you in a shirt and sweatpants thinking about sexting me is really, really fucking hot.*

He tilts his head, aroused, yes, but also a little distracted. *How are you typing so fast?*

*Okay, another lesson—concentrate on sexting when you're sexting. But since you asked, I'm ambidextrous, remember? And we're all experts at one-handed typing, aren't we? Or did you want to imagine me getting the screen of my phone slick as I used the fingers that were just touching myself to type to you?*

He shudders and finally gives in the urge to touch himself, reaching down to curl his hand around his length and moving his fist up and down in steady, rhythmic motions.

*You're touching yourself now, aren't you? Are you thinking of me, of how wet I am for you, of how I'm pretending it's your fingers inside of me right now? Do you want me, pretty boy, do you want me as badly as I want you?*

He can barely type out his reply. *Yes.*

*Good.*

He imagines her smiling as she types, full mouth curving into a bright, wicked smile, and he closes his eyes and shudders as he comes, his release quick and explosive and mind-blowing. He sits panting for a few moments before cleaning himself up and typing a reply, trying to make things as good for her as she's done for him. He tells her everything, just types and types and types everything he wants to do to her:

*I want to kiss your jaw, trail my lips down over your neck, and linger on your breasts. I want to suck your nipples until you're crying out my name. I want to move your hand away from you and replace it with my own. I want you to ride my fingers, head tossed back, eyes closed as I leave hickeys all over your neck. I want to push your panties to the side and take you. I want to feel how wet you are. I want you to come for me.*

He's not sure if it's worked, not sure if he did it wrong, and stares at the phone anxiously for several minutes.

He releases a sigh of relief when it beeps in his hand.

*Okay. I take it back. You don't suck at this.*

He smiles. *Did you come?*

*Oh, yeah. Thanks. ;)*

*Thank you.* He hesitates, then sends another message. *This doesn't change anything, you know. We can still talk about everything else. This is just us doing a little more.*

*The term you're looking for is friends with benefits. And I like these benefits. You want to do this again sometime?*

*Yes.*

*Cool. Good night, pretty boy. Dream of me. ;D*

He puts his phone away, turns off the lights, and closes his eyes, knowing that he will.

* * *

She wonders if this is strictly healthy, leading a double life.

Okay, "double life" might be a bit of an exaggeration, but that's honestly what it feels like. She has to pretend whenever she sees him in person that she's snarky, antagonistic, same-as-ever Éponine Thénardier, and that she shouldn't actually order him his favorite sandwich (turkey on rye bread with lettuce and tomato, no mayo or onions, but yes to two slices of sharp cheddar cheese), since she shouldn't _know_ what his favorite sandwich is, let alone be comfortable enough to order and pay for him.

And she has to remind herself when she's being her sexy, mysterious alter-ego that she shouldn't mention how he needs some sleep because the circles under his eyes are dark enough that he looks like a panda, because she shouldn't have _seen_ him that day, since he never left his apartment (she'd driven Marius over for some Les Amis thing and barely stayed inside for five minutes, unable to look at the leather couch he'd described wanting to lay her down on so he could eat her out, at least not without spontaneously combusting).

Still, she thinks she can handle it; she thinks she'll be okay—and Jesus Christ, this friends with benefits thing they have going is good enough for her to stand a little confusion.

Though, yeah, there was that time she managed to get Enjolras to tell her that he was wearing boxer-briefs with the pattern of the French flag on them. She thought it was cute and slightly amusing at the time, but a few days later at La Musain, she caught sight of his underwear above the waistband of his jeans. It looked like the boxer-briefs he was talking about. Suddenly, it was less cute and more unbearably arousing, and she had to sit through the meeting in uncomfortably damp panties until she sneaked away to the restroom to take care of herself.

And then there's how he sends her fucking love poetry and erotic letters while she's in the middle of teaching section to a bunch of bored undergrads, and how he's absolutely _ruined_ whipped cream for her, and how she can't walk past him when he's wearing that aftershave of his without getting so turned on that it's hard not to just shove him against the wall, unbutton his jeans, get on her knees, and go down on him the way he's told her he's imagined her doing.

And then there's fact that Cosette and Azelma and Aunt Fantine keep pestering her to let them meet her boyfriend, the one she's always texting, the one who always manages to send her messages that make her smile. She tells them she doesn't have one, and they give each other knowing looks and turn to her and say, "Uh-huh. Yeah. We'll believe you when cows breathe fire."

She rolls her eyes and tells them to leave her alone. She and Enjolras aren't _dating_. They're just…friends with benefits. Nice and safe and easy.

* * *

She knows there's a huge problem when she goes out with a guy—a nice one, too, one of Cosette's coworkers at the charity. He's rich and handsome and charmingly polite, and he takes her out to a fancy, expensive restaurant/bar and kisses her over dessert, and she kisses him back and…

…feels absolutely nothing. Nada. Zip. No spark of attraction, no little zing of anticipation, no urge to suggest he take her home for some first-date sex. So she pulls back, coyly demurs and evades and makes noncommittal noises regarding a potential next date, and waves him off, saying she'll just catch a cab home.

She heads to the bar instead, orders some tequila, and downs it in one gulp, slamming the glass on the table and shaking her head.

She just turned down a gorgeous, sexy man who probably wanted to fuck her with no strings attached, and most likely would've left her with a shiny piece of jewelry when they "broke up," and she feels absolutely _fine_. Not even the least bit regretful. What is wrong with her? She hasn't been laid in months now, not since—

Not since she and Enjolras started texting. _Texting_. Mother of God, she's been exclusive with him even _before _they started this friends-with-benefits thing. She hasn't had sex in _half a year_ and she's fine with it! Fine! How is this even—

Her phone beeps, and all the anticipation and attraction that was missing with Mr. Perfect One-Night-Stand suddenly flares to life.

She's already heading to the bathroom as she pulls out her phone to read his message:

*How are you doing? There was a documentary on Jacques Cocteau on History Channel earlier, and the narrator kept mispronouncing his name. I thought of you and how you would've had the most scathing comments.*

She locks the door of the stall and sits down heavily on the toilet seat, staring at his text and thinking how utterly domestic he sounds. _I thought of you_, he types. Does he know, has he guessed, can he even understand how much those words those words mean to her?

He thinks of her, the angry, bitter young woman who's too much of a coward to reveal her identity and give them a shot at a real relationship. He thinks of her, the lonely girl who's never been anyone's first thought or concern, not until now, not until him. He thinks of her, not because he wants something from her, but simply because he's made room for her in his life, shifted things aside and given her a permanent place, embedded her so deeply in the fabric of his everyday routine that it's now become second-place for him to see something and be reminded of her.

She leans her head against the flimsy wall and takes a deep breath, trying not to cry, and slowly types out, *What*, and stares at it.

Should she type, _What are you thinking, starting a relationship with someone you don't even know?_

Or, _What are we doing? How did we get to this? Are as scared as I am? Please tell me you're as scared as I am._

Or perhaps even, _What would you do, if I told you I wanted to meet you? If I told you that I want more, that I want everything?_

She's on the verge of typing out option three when she chickens out and falls on the old stand-by instead.

*What are you wearing?*

An abrupt, straight-forward request for sex. Way to go, Éponine, how classy of you.

She stares at her screen and waits for his answer, wondering if he'll play along or if this time he'll cut his losses and walk away.

(If she were a good person, she'd hope for the second option, but she's never exactly claimed to be one.)

* * *

*What are you wearing?* the message reads, and he swallows. This isn't exactly the reply he was expecting, but he glances at the clock and decides that yes, he supposes it's late enough for this, and, well, after that text he's definitely in the mood.

It's strange how this one line of text can get him half-hard in ten seconds flat when at the very start of their conversations all he'd felt at these words was a mild annoyance and increasing bewilderment.

He doesn't even know this girl's name.

(But he knows _her_—he knows that she likes her coffee with too much sugar and that she knows several German curse words and has read Voltaire and likes to argue with him.

He knows she owns purple panties.)

Still, he types: *What do you think I'm wearing? It's past midnight. Sweatpants and a t-shirt.*

He sends it and pictures her grin—a sharp curve of a full mouth. He imagines her with a full mouth, deceptively soft-looking to hide the strong voice she possesses.

*So you're in bed already? (And COLOR. Tell me the COLOR. We've gone over this.)*

*Of course I'm in bed. Where are you?*

*In the bathroom of a bar. I got bored. Color?*

He frowns. Nice to know he's her last resort. *Gray sweatpants. Red shirt.*

*Ooooh, red. I like you in red.*

He shifts, uncomfortably aroused. He knows she knows who he is—and truth be told she would probably reveal her identity now if he pressed. But there's someone he imagines her to be, and he knows it'll never be her in a million years, so he keeps quiet. They're both getting something out of this arrangement, this side-benefit to their friendship, anyway—him, relief from stress. Her, relief from boredom. Or so he tells himself.

(Éponine Jondrette would never waste her time on a man like him, not even as a break from boredom, and he reminds himself sternly that it's stupid and unfair to his friend to wish that she was her, but his heart ignores his head and hopes anyway.)

*What are you wearing?* he types.

*Red lipstick and the blood of my enemies.*

*…you wouldn't think that would be arousing, but it is.*

*Only to you, pretty boy. ;)*

He grins a little. *Anything else besides that?*

*Short black dress. Dark green high heels. Fishnet stockings. No underwear.*

_Shit._ He stares blankly at his phone until it vibrates in his hand.

*Hmmm, got you all excited now, huh? ;)*

That was an understatement. He sucks in a breath and starts typing out an answer, but like always she gets a message in faster than he can reply.

*So what're you wearing?* she asks.

He bites his lip.

_You_, he wants to say. _You and your words and your thoughts on my skin, you and every fantasy you bring to life, every ghostly caress, every filthy, dirty, __**glorious **__conversation we've ever had, imprinted on my body in plain black text._

Instead, he types: *Dark gray boxers.*

*Mmm. Bet your ass looks great in them. Then again it kinda looks great in anything. Makes me wanna take a bite out of it.*

*I'm not sure I appreciate that thought.*

*Liar. You're fucking hard for me and I know it.*

She's right, of course; his erection is straining against the old cotton as he resolutely stares at her words, refusing to touch himself just yet.

*Well, you're wet for me, so I think we're even.*

He imagines her chuckling in a bathroom stall somewhere, head resting on the heel of one hand while her elbow is propped up on her knee.

*Not so sure about that, pretty boy. Want me to touch myself and see?*

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. She's gonna kill him one of these days.

He types out his answer with slightly shaky fingers:

*yes*

* * *

Éponine sucks in a breath and stares at her screen; they've been doing this for weeks now and it still surprises her a little whenever he goes along with her game, this side of him so unexpected and surprising, all the passion he puts into his causes directed at pleasuring her instead. She's written down each and every one of his sexts to her before deleting them on her phone—she's half-terrified that somebody will catch sight of one and tell Enjolras, and he'll never speak to her again, but she also wants to have proof. Proof that yes, she's brought him to this, stripped him bare to nothing more than lust and need, proof that he wants her, even if it's just a fantasy of her.

(Though there's also the, ah, carnally _recreational_ value of his texts—he's got a gift with words, after all, and he's better at getting her off than any of her trashy romance novels or kinky porn mags, so that's another reason to save them.)

In the here and now, she exhales slowly and obediently parts her knees, sliding her hand along the smooth skin of her thighs until she reaches her center, cool fingers meeting slick heat. She closes her eyes and moans slightly as she begins circling her clit. Oh, yeah. She's dripping wet for him, the smug bastard.

*Fine. You're right.* she texts him, fingers moving in slow patterns.

*You're still touching yourself, aren't you?*

She grins. *You know me SO well.*

*Yes, I do.* he writes, and it's strangely serious; she can almost imagine him saying the words, eyes solemn and earnest, and her fingers falter for a second. Then the phones beeps in her hand again and pulls her back to the present.

*I want you to slide a finger inside yourself.* he commands.

She bites her lip, feeling her face flush. She likes it when he gets into these moods, when he gets all…dominant. Usually she leads and he's content to follow, but now and again he takes control, and God, does it drive her crazy. So she does as he says and shudders.

*Are you doing it?* he asks.

*yes* is all she can type at the moment.

*Good girl* he answers, and she has to bring her other hand up to her mouth to muffle her whimper. *Now, I want you to add another finger. Fuck yourself slowly for me, inch by inch.*

She barely manages to send him an answer. *ok*

*Good* he says again. *Now palm your breast. Tug lightly on the nipple. I want you to pinch and pull on it, and I want you to keep fingering yourself while you do that. Can you do that for me?*

*yes* she types, then proceeds to do as he asked, breath coming faster and legs opening wider, her fingers moving in and out of her body more easily as she gets wetter and wetter and wetter, imagining his voice whispering his words right into her ear, low and forceful and _oh_.

His next text says *Don't reply to this until you've come* and she almost does right there and then, but she holds back, stopping for a bit and waiting for his next message, knowing that the pay-off will be worth it.

It is.

*I want you to move your fingers faster; curl them inside you and rub yourself just the way you like. Use your thumb to brush your clit—it's swollen and aching, isn't it? It feels good to circle it, to press on it hard and slow as you fuck yourself, doesn't it?*

*I want you to do that for me—will you do that for me, baby? You will, won't you, because you're a good girl even if you like doing dirty things, and you'll do this for me because you like it when I tell to you fuck yourself.*

*And you like to imagine that it's me doing it, don't you, you like to pretend it's MY fingers inside you, pumping pleasure into your body, stroking you and pinching you and driving you CRAZY, you're crazy for me, aren't you?*

*How close are you to coming for me right now? I bet it won't even take you five minutes to respond. I can see you right now in some little bathroom stall, legs spread with your hands between them, your back arching like you're offering yourself to me, trembling and moaning and trying to be quiet as you come for me, but you can't, you're too loud, you're nearly screaming.*

*I want you to scream as you come. Come for me. Come for me NOW.*

And she does, exactly as he says, shuddering and shaking and nearly sobbing as she opens her mouth on a silent scream, barely just managing to cut herself off before she makes a sound.

When she comes down from her high, she's slumped against the wall of the stall, arm propped on the tissue paper dispenser to keep herself upright, the insides of her thighs slick and her fingers drenched when she pulls them out. She uses some of the tissues to clean herself up and types her reply: *wow*

*Did you come?* he asks.

*Well, I'm replying, aren't I?* she says, rolling her eyes.

*Good.*

*I'll say. ;D* She pushes her hair back from her face and types *How about you? Anything you want me to do?*

*No. I already came.* is his quick reply.

*Without my help? How rude.*

*…not exactly. I was picturing you doing everything I told you to, so I would say you leant a fair amount of assistance.*

*But it's all in your imagination, isn't it?*

*Is it? I picture you with dark hair. Is that accurate?*

She freezes entirely, dread pooling in her stomach. This is the first personal, identifying question he's asked her about her appearance. *Look, I gotta go.* she types.

*Wait, I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that.*

*I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?* she hurriedly replies, and then puts her phone on silent, shoves it into her bag, and stalks out of the restroom, trying not to feel like she's running away and horribly aware that that's all she's doing.

* * *

She doesn't talk to him tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that.

He sends her texts, dozens of them, frantic and apologetic at first, then worried, then increasingly angry and accusatory, then veering back to apologetic again.

*I'm sorry* he says. *I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. You don't owe me anything.*

*Are you okay? Are you alright? Please just message me one last time to let me know that you're alright. Please.*

*I saw a battered copy of Hobbes's _Leviathan_ today. I thought of you.*

*I know this is stupid, but I miss you.*

*You're probably not even reading this message, but I hope you're alright.*

*I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.*

*It's been a month and a half since we last talked. One of my friends is getting married in two weeks. I'm looking at the invitation—it says I can bring one guest and I thought of you. I know your answer would be no, of course.*

*I miss you like the earth misses rain during a drought. I miss you like the moon misses the sun at night. I miss you like—you know what, there aren't really words for the way I miss you.*

*Since I'm 99.99% certain you're not even reading this, I guess it's safe to say that I was a stupid idiot for even talking to you in the first place, and this is what I get for starting an anonymous relationship.*

*I wish I'd never met you. I guess it's a good thing I never did.*

_It's for the best_, she tells herself. _He would've been disappointed to find out it was you_.

Still, she keeps each and every one of his lonely, yearning texts, stores them on her phone as if they were messages in a bottle reaching her after some great and unfathomable journey, a one-sided conversation that nevertheless cuts her to the quick and strikes her to the bone.

* * *

As Marius's best man, Courfeyrac is paired with Éponine Thénardier for the wedding, which is only to be expected.

What isn't expected, however, is Courfeyrac approaching him a few days before the event and anxiously promising him that he won't hit on Éponine.

"Wait, what?" Enjolras says, pulling his attention from his phone (no messages; he doesn't know why he expects any differently) long enough to stare incredulously at his friend.

Courfeyrac bites his lip and rocks back on his heels. "Look, I know you took the break-up pretty badly, and I just want to say—"

"What break-up?" Enjolras snaps, bristling with indignation and helpless fury.

Courfeyrac shoots him a look. "Hey, I know you guys were keeping the relationship secret, and I'm pretty sure not everyone figured it out, but come on, the sexual tension whenever you two were in a room was through the roof, and you were both constantly texting whenever you weren't together. That was kind of a give-away. Not to mention you both started being extremely mopey and angsty at the same time, and haven't been in the same place for more than thirty seconds, tops, for around two months. That has bad break-up written all over it."

"It's not Éponine—she's not even—we weren't dating," Enjolras says angrily, running a hand through his hair.

Courfeyrac just shoots him another look and starts backing away. "Okay, man. Whatever you say. Just remember, I'm here if you need to talk, alright?"

Enjolras watches him walk away, almost feeling the urge to laugh at how utterly wrong his hypothesis is.

But then he starts thinking…

Is he really wrong?

* * *

"Did you know about Éponine and me?" Enjolras asks Combeferre the day before the wedding. They're at rehearsal, and the woman in question is dancing with Grantaire and laughing uproariously. She looks happy and well-adjusted and not even the slightest bit mopey or angsty. Enjolras is reasonably certain Courfeyrac had it all wrong, but he tests the idea out on his best friend, just to be sure.

Combeferre knows him better than he knows himself; if there's something his subconscious is choosing to ignore, then the other man has the answers.

Combeferre looks at him, faintly surprised. "Yes. I think it's just Cosette, Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and I—everyone else hasn't a clue. It's a good thing Marius doesn't know, of course, because, one, he can't keep a secret to save his life, and two, I think he would've tried to kill you for hurting Éponine. I'm surprised Cosette hasn't tried, to be honest, though I think that's because she's aware that Éponine broke up with you. Are you ready to talk about it now?"

"No," Enjolras replies, anger beginning to burn in his belly. "I'm not."

Combeferre follows his line of sight to Éponine. "Ah. Well, just don't do anything rash, alright?"

Enjolras doesn't answer.

* * *

The wedding is absolutely beautiful, everything Éponine ever wanted for Cosette. The weather is perfect, the guests behaved, the location decorated flawlessly, and the reception looks like a dream.

Cosette is a vision of loveliness, radiating joy and love and happiness, and there isn't a dry eye in the church as Valjean and Fantine lead her down the aisle. People are outright sobbing by the time she and Marius say their vows, Marius included, but Cosette just leans forward and kisses the tears from his face with her smiling mouth, saying her promises against his damp eyelids, his tear-stained cheeks, his trembling lips.

(And okay, by that point, Éponine is a little teary-eyed herself, but she figures she gets a pass—it's her best friend's wedding to one of her other best friends. She's allowed to get weepy on this once-in-a-lifetime occasion.)

The party's fantastic, too, the music good and the food delicious, the wine sparkling and the speeches just right, laughter and tears and more laughter following one after another as Courfeyrac and she and Azelma and Gavroche get up and talk. Then Valjean and Mr. Gillenormand fairly reduce everyone to sobbing wrecks with their stoic but obviously heartfelt words.

Fantine just leads her daughter to the dance floor and holds her close, swaying to the music and humming softly, passing her to her father when the time is right, then watching as Marius gets up to dance with his bride, her little girl all grown up.

Éponine is one of the first to get up and dance with them, not stopping until her feet are sore and her ears nearly deaf from the bass speakers, upon which it's time to catch the bouquet and wave the newly married couple off.

She does it with a bittersweet smile and a (mostly) happily heavy heart, high heels in hand, watching until the car is a speck in the distance. She stands and keeps staring for a little bit longer before heading back into the ballroom to find her purse—she's too tipsy to drive, but she could probably hitch a ride with Combeferre or somebody—

Oh. Her phone is ringing.

She's already bringing it up to her ear and saying, "Hello?" before she realizes that it's _that_ phone.

"What are you wearing?" Enjolras asks, and she looks up to find him staring at her intently from across the room, cell-phone in hand, eyes cold and absolutely _furious_.

She gulps.

He hangs up and starts striding towards her, and Éponine does the only thing she can think of to do.

She runs.

* * *

"Hello?" she says, her voice a little slurred, low and husky and horribly, terribly familiar, and he realizes in the seconds before he says something that he's been reading her texts in her damn voice, and why the hell did her never realize it was her?

"What are you wearing?" he bites out, and he can see her jerk and look up, her wide eyes meeting his.

And then she's running, fleeing, taking off like the coward she's been these past months, and Enjolras has had enough of letting her go.

He chases after her.

He catches her at the door, grabbing hold of her elbow and leading her towards the parking garage, accepting his keys from the valet with a wordless nod and ignoring how stiff she is.

"Get in the car," he commands once they get there.

"No," she says, still not looking at him, arms stubbornly crossed, her purse in one hand, her shoes in the other, her dark hair tumbling down her back in wild, messy waves.

"Get in the car," he repeats. "I won't tell you again."

She does so, and he's too angry to care that she's shaking slightly as she takes her seat. She fumbles with the seatbelt a little, and he reaches over and buckles it in for her, fingers brushing her breasts and hips, and she gasps.

"Sorry," he replies curtly, lifting his hands from her immediately. He's not here for _that_, he's here for—

He's not sure what he's here for, exactly, but he's damn sure "answers" rate rather highly on the list.

He revs the engine and drives off, using the near-empty side-streets to get back to the hotel where the wedding party is staying, taking the longest route possible so they have time to talk and he has time to calm down.

"What the hell kind of game were you playing? Did you think it was _funny_?" he spits out.

Okay, maybe more time to calm down was needed.

"No," she answers, and then goes silent again.

"'No'? 'No'? Is that all you have to say? Wow, after six whole months of talking my ear off, monosyllabic answers are the best I get from you. I suppose I should be grateful, though. At least it's better than thinking you were dead. At least it's better than worrying that I hurt you—you're fucking fine, aren't you? Two months of losing my goddamn mind and you're living life same as ever. I don't know why I expected any different, it wasn't as if I didn't know you never gave a damn about me—"

"Shut up," she says. "Shut up, shut up, shut _up_."

He slams the brakes on the car, bringing it to a screeching halt on the side of the road.

She immediately opens her door, stumbles out of the car, and begins walking away, and he follows after her, their shadows from the headlights long on the road.

"Why do you want me to shut up?" he shouts. "So I can be like you? Just cut all contact completely, without any warning whatsoever? Is that what you want? You want me to say nothing? That wasn't what you were saying three months ago when you begged me to keep talking, keep texting you—you said you wanted more, you wanted everything, you _begged_ me to keep going, do you remember how you begged, Éponine, because I do!"

Her hand slams across his face, and she rears her arms back for another blow, but he grabs hold of her wrists and brings her close even as she struggles to break free.

"Why?" he asks, his words nearly a cry as he shakes her. _"Why?"_

"Why _what_?" she yells back.

_Why did you start talking to me? Why did you stop? Why didn't you tell me who you were? Why didn't you trust me? Why didn't you feel about me the same way I felt about you—I thought you did, I thought you cared, but I was just fooling myself, wasn't I? _are all questions he wants to ask.

What comes out of his mouth is, "Why can't I stop loving you?"

She finally, finally looks up at him at that, and he doesn't have words for the expression on her face, knowing only that it's something close to horror and anger and revulsion.

"Forget it," he says, letting her go and walking away—from her, from them, from this whole sad, sorry mess, just the way she wanted him to, just the way he should've done months ago—

Her shoe hits his head.

"What the fuck, Éponine?" he shouts, turning back around.

"You can't say things like that! You can't say things like that to me!" she yells, striding forward to beat her hands against his chest, then struggling against him when he grabs hold of her arms to stop her. She's crying when she looks up at him, wild and angry and frustrated. "You can't say things like that," she says again, something broken in her eyes. "I'll think you mean it."

"But I do," he says, still angry. He runs his hand through his hair and gestures at her. "I meant everything I said to you—everything, Éponine, every—"

"Shut up," she says again. "Shut up, shut up."

And then she's kissing him, tugging hard on his hair and pulling him down so she can bite down hard on his lips, drawing blood and licking it away, shoving her tongue into his mouth and pressing her body into his the way he's dreamed about for months and months and months.

He turns them around and lifts her up to slam her down on the hood of his car, hands frantically pushing her knees apart so he can settle his hips against hers, grinding down hard so she can _feel_ him, his mouth greedily swallowing her gasp as he kisses her and kisses her and kisses her, wanting more, wanting everything, taking all she has to give him.

He's palming her breasts through the fabric of her dress, fingers finding and squeezing her hardened nipples, and she bucks against him in response, writhing underneath him just the way he used to imagine she would, and soon he leaves her mouth free to cry out, nipping at the smooth column of her throat as he forces her body to respond to him. Moans and whimpers fall from her lips as he hikes her dress up and pulls her panties down, clever hands finding where she's wet and ready for him. He shoves his fingers into her, watching as her back arches almost entirely off the car, her hips canting up shamelessly as he fucks her with his fingers.

"Please, please, Enjolras, please," she's begging, and her own hands come up to push ineffectually at his belt and pants. He leaves her alone long enough to pull his clothes down so they're pooled around his ankles, and then he's grabbing her thighs and tilting her up so he can thrust into her, going fast and hard and rough, setting a brutal, demanding pace, fingers digging into her hips and bruising her, but she's raking her hands down his back and leaving long, painful scratches, so he figures they're even.

This isn't anything like he's ever done before, this maelstrom of movement and heat and friction, fucking on the hood of his car like they're something slightly less than human, not giving a damn that somebody could drive by and see them. He's too angry and too needy and too desperate to care about anything other than her body clenching tight around his, than her slick, wet heat sucking him in and driving him crazy, than her dark eyes staring up at him as her voice chants his name, over and over and over—

He's muttering as he comes, the words pouring out, and he has no clue what he's saying, but it must be the right thing because she's locking her legs tight around his hips and keening as she follows after, a trembling, beautiful, glorious mess underneath him.

He's panting against her neck, trying to catch his breath, when her hand comes up and cups his face and forces him to look at her.

"Did you mean what you said?" she asks. "Just now?"

"What did I say?" he rasps.

"That you wanted it to be me; that you hoped it was me all along," she answers.

He props himself up on shaking elbows to look down at her. "Yes," he says. "I meant it."

She pushes herself up for another kiss and he gives it to her, the way he's already given her everything he has, and he can't bring himself to regret it.

* * *

They're in her hotel room tangled naked together, and he's running a hand up and down her bare back, when he asks her again, "Why?"

She looks away, and he brushes his hand against her cheek until she looks back at him. "I thought you wouldn't want me if you knew it was me," she whispers.

He has to bite down on his lip to hold in his laughter, and he doesn't entirely succeed, since she smacks his shoulder and glares at him. "I'm sorry," he says sincerely, pulling her in to kiss her. "I'm not really laughing at you—I'm laughing at me. _I_ didn't ask who you were because I liked to pretend that you were…well, you." He nuzzles his nose against her cheekbones, his lips meeting hers in petal-soft, gentle kisses.

"Why?" This time it's her who asks.

"Because you're amazing," he replies, "and I've wanted you since your sophomore year of college, but I figured I ruined things by being a conceited ass."

"I thought I ruined things because I was a frigid bitch," she confesses.

His eyes crinkle as he smiles at her. "Well, you kind of did for two months there, or at least thoroughly convinced me that I'd done something to run you off. Seriously, I thought you moved to Guam or something."

He doesn't understand why she's laughing so hard, but he waits until she's stopped to speak again. "I love you," he says, cradling her face. "And I'm sorry, but now that I know who you are, if you even _think_ of leaving me again, I will track you down and argue and talk and yell and cajole and sext you dirty, filthy, awful things until you give in and come back with me just to shut me up."

She wraps her arms around his shoulders and presses her lips to his. "Deal." Then she pulls back and grins at him. "Your sexts are kind of awful, I'll admit."

He raises a brow at her. "Oh, really?"

She nods, her face solemn even as her eyes glint with laughter. "Mmhm. I think I like you much better in person."

"Me, too," he says as he rolls her under him and begins tracing his hands down her body. "Me, too."

* * *

**...**

**...**

**...**

**Two Years Later:**

**...**

**...**

**...**

* * *

_*Hey, baby. ;)*_

*What?*

_*Nothing.*_

*Alright, then.*

_*:-(*_

*WHAT*

_*…you're supposed to ask me what I'm wearing.*_

*Fine, then. What are you wearing?*

_*Oh, nothing.*_

*Éponine, what is the point of this?*

_*Ahem. Well, I'm wearing NOTHING, which means I'm naked. ^^*_

*Éponine, I'm at work.*

_*Oh, right, right. Well, then I'm wearing ALMOST nothing.*_

*ÉPONINE.*

_*You see, I found this box in your tie drawer…*_

*WHAT*

*ÉPONINE NO*

*TELL ME YOU DIDN'T*

*DAMN IT IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SURPRISE*

*I HAD A WHOLE PLAN AND EVERYTHING*

*PUT IT BACK*

_*No. I like it. It's shiny. It's a very nice ring and it fits so perfectly on my hand. Do you want to see a picture? :D*_

*NO*

_*too late*_

*ÉPONINE!*

*THAT PICTURE IS*

*I AM AT WORK. NUDITY IS NOT ALLOWED.*

_*Calm down, YOU've got your clothes on. Besides, I was just showing off my new engagement ring. A girl's allowed to flash her stuff. ;)*_

*…flashing is a mild term for what you just did. Your were—your hand was—it was—DAMN IT*

_*It was where your mouth was last night. I don't really see a problem.*_

*OH YOU DON'T DO YOU*

*JFC*

_*:D*_

*ÉPONINE*

_*Stop saying my name so loudly, Enjolras, your fellow lawyers are going to notice you're sexting.*_

*I'M NOT SEXTING*

_*Oh, really?*_

*…*

_*What are you wearing, darling? ;)*_

*…black suit. White shirt. Red tie.*

_*Ooooh, red. I LIKE you in red.*_

*I know.*

_*Were you gonna wear red when you proposed to me?*_

*If you're so eager to know, yes. Yes, I was.*

_*So wear it tonight when you propose in person. You know, since I like you so much BETTER in person. You're so…touchable. And LOUD. And MINE. :DDD*_

*You're touching yourself, aren't you?*

_*;D*_

*Fine. This is what I want you to do…*

* * *

**Endnote: Thank you very much for reading this story. Please review and tell me what you think. Tell me your favorite line, or what you liked best about it, or what you thought I could have done better (like seriously, was the sexting believable?). Honestly, even just a smiley face would be nice - feedback just helps me get in the mood to write, basically, and any and all comments are very much appreciated. Have a good day! :)**


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